How I didn't blow your minds

This is the blog post that wasn't.

It started yesterday when I realized that I'm over all our summer activities (pool, park, beach, bungee jumping). Yet, staying home all day is not an option with my TV-loving, mommy-come-watch-this, easily frustrated toddler.

So I decided on a whim to head down to Steve & Barry's, the world's weirdest store where I've had mediocre luck in the past. (And only thanks to SPJ and her Bitten line.) I knew that S&B had fallen on hard times, so when I saw a sign announcing the store was closing in a week, I assumed it was related to their bankruptcy.

Everything in the store was marked $8.98, because $8.99 is, like, sooo expensive. But ever greedy, I decided I was going to barter for a better deal like the inspiring blogger I inspire to be. I started to craft this post in my head, envisioning the great comments I'd get, like, "You always do things I never have the guts to try."

So I started to throw things in my cart. Cute things. Average things. Things you would give to a person you really don't like on her birthday. I gathered pants, capris, shorts, shoes, tops and one item that might have been a shirt, a dress or some sort of nursing wrap.

I cruised up to the register with my sky-high pile of threads, pulled out some cash and said:

"Look, I'm going to offer you $40 for this pile of clothes right now."

Startled cashier: "What?"

Me: "I know you're going out of business next week, and I've seen the massive amount of clothes you still have, so there's no way you are going to sell this all before then. This is a deal for you guys."

Startled cashier: "Um, we're closing because they are redeveloping this shopping center. We're just going to send our leftover stuff to the other Steve & Barry's."

Me: "Oh. So this isn't related to the bankruptcy?"

Annoyed cashier: "No."

Me: "Oh. So you're not going to adjust the prices?"

Incredulous cashier: "No."

Me: "I better sort through that pile then."

Me: (Handing her my three pieces.) "Sorry about that confusion. It's shopping tradition to barter when a store is going out of business."

Interested cashier: "Really?"

Me: (Continuing to lie to assuage my discomfort.) "Oh yeah, I do it all the time. I usually get things for 90-95 percent off."

Impressed cashier: "Wow. I'll have to remember it."

Me: "Glad to help."

The worst part is I got home and decided I don't even like the three things I bought. So now I have to go back and return them. I'm just hoping they've managed to put away my pile of clothes by then.



p.s. It's a no-TV, no-computer day at our house, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Miss Dub about this post.

Target is the new Playland

I consider myself a pretty busy person, but every now and then I accomplish so much on Monday and Tuesday that Wednesday comes and it's, like, "Will I just be counting the minutes until I eventually die?" (Technically, this is impossible, because you can't count while you're sleeping; and if you're not sleeping, you might be an alien and therefore immune to human boredom. Glad to clear that up.)

Miss Dub, despite her tender age, is actually quite content to keep herself busy playing with her three baby dolls - Mimi, Kiki and Carma. She could spend several hours just rearranging their sitting positions: "Mimi, Carma, Kiki - no, Carma, Mimi, Kiki!" She also likes to mimic me, which is very telling. She's either having a party with them or ordering them to the "mad chair." So apparently I'm a disciplinarian socialite. There are worse things.

But I can only handle so much baby doll time myself. So I decided we would take a trip to Target and let Miss Dub walk around sans cart. (Insert gasps.) Upon getting there, we immediately headed to the ... baby doll section! Yes, I let my child play in the baby doll aisle of Target for 90 minutes. (You did not read wrong. I am a bad person.)

When I realized the aisle had serious appeal, I went and got some magazines. (No worries, I just hid Miss Dub among the baby dolls while I browsed the tabloid section.) I then removed a few stuffed puppies and made myself comfortable on a bottom shelf. Miss Dub happily took down a nice selection of baby dolls - some that pee themselves, some that talk, some that perform delicate surgeries - and rearranged them.

It was sheer genius. Not to be confused with Shear Genius, which is really letting me down this season. No wonder I'm in desperate need of a haircut. I'm just so uninspired in this world of Holmes 'dos. (And, yet, it's still so cute. Curses!)

But the best moment came when I finally insisted we go to the "Mommy section." Miss Dub ran off for a second and then came back carrying a bra.

"Wook, Mommy!" she exclaimed, quite proud of herself, and in full view of Target's teenage male population. (Why were they in the intimates section, anyway?)

"Our house," she added, meaning I have some at our house.

Not one to embarrass my daughter, I gave the bra an enthusiastic examination.

32DD.

Very flattering. Maybe I am doing something right.

Lesbians, dessert, babies and mastheads

Four wonderful things happened to me yesterday:

1. I got mistaken for a lesbian at the park. I took it as a compliment that I was raising my daughter in such a modern way that I could only be a same-sex partner parent. Obviously, the person didn't see the fruit snacks I was giving her. Lesbians hate fruit snacks.

2. Mr. Dub made me an amazing dessert, like right now - as I'm blogging it. (Welcome to the future, folks.) If I was a cool blogger, I would tell you how it was home-churned vanilla bean ice milk with tender cubes of fresh bananas and ripe strawberries served in a red vintage bowl. But I'm not. So I won't. (And it wasn't.)

3. I found a baby on the side of the road and brought it home to live with me. Or maybe that was just a dream. I'm really baby hungry. Did I mention there were baby bits on that ice milk? Mmm ... delicious.

4. Lyndsay (a friend of a friend) sent me this fabulous masthead. Don't you love it? I love it. Or, as Miss Dub has been saying lately, "I wuv it, wuv it." I do believe you can get one, too, right here. Or here. Or here. (Yes, it's all the same link, but have you linked yet?)

Check your children's backpacks!

I hate to steal other people's material, but when the other person in question doesn't read my blog, and most likely doesn't have a blog, I feel OK about it. Also, it involves Antarctic wildlife, and that makes the following somewhat of a public service announcement.

I was at a party the other night when a woman I know shared this ditty about a friend who brought her 5-year-old grandson from Indiana to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago.

At some point during their visit, she looked down and realized her grandson was missing. She searched around on her own, but couldn't find him, so she contacted security, and they began to search every nook and cranny of the aquarium.

I should interrupt this story and tell you two things:
1. This is not a story about a missing child.
2. I do not mean to promote missing children. I'm strictly against kidnapping, wandering off and any other childhood absenteeism.

After two hours of fruitless searching, they were frantic, so the aquarium locked down the building to do a total sweep of the entire facility and all of the patrons. As this was going on, the woman heard, "Hi, grandma!" She looked down and saw her grandson was standing next to her, clutching his backpack to his chest. (Note the foreshadowing.)

In her anger and embarrassment, the woman shouted, "I found him!" and got out of there as fast as she could, without determining where he'd been hiding for several hours.

In the car, the boy wouldn't reveal his whereabouts, keeping his backpack close to him. When they got back home, she angrily threw the backpack on the floor - and it moved! There was something alive in there. She opened it up and found a BABY PENGUIN.

Turns out this kid had managed to access a restricted area behind locked doors where there was an incubator warming newly born penguins. He apparently took a liking to one and stuck it in his backpack.

By the way, I'm not into penguin or backpack abuse. Don't sic PETA on me. (If you do, please warn me so I can take off my penguin-skin backpack first.)

Anyway, I thought that was a crazy story. And, no worries, the penguin was returned.

Then, the same woman who told me this story told me another story about a 13-year-old who jumped into a tank at the aquarium, wrestled a grown penguin and put it in his backpack - all without anyone doing anything.

So I'm, like, "Are you, like, the penguin-backpack-story-lady?"

But I swear she's a real credible lady. She shops at Talbots.

Surgery, schmurgery

Anesthesia is so weird. One second you're all, "Hey doc, love the new clogs," and then next, you're like, "Where am I?" "Why am I not wearing a bra?"

And it's so nauseating to try and get conscious. Usually I'm happy to tune out of life or discussions about other people's vacations, but when you want to tune in, it can hurt. Focus. Focus. Oops, sleeping again. Talk to the nurse so she thinks you're a brave little girl. Crap, you just closed your eyes halfway through something about her son and a missing pancake.

In fact, I'm getting nauseous just remembering the experience, which I've had way too many times in my (not as) young (as it used to be) life.

But the good news is I'm OK. The even better news is I didn't really need the surgery as the problem apparently resolved itself in the two months between discovery and waking up at 5 a.m. to go to the hospital. (Am I being too vague? I had a mass in my uterus that was causing me excruciating pain, probably related to my molar pregnancy. Still confused? A uterus is where a baby grows. Ask your mom how it got in there.)

This is not the first time I've had an unnecessary procedure. There was the time on my LDS mission when I had my appendix taken out for fun. Just imagine coming out of anesthesia to have a doctor tell you in Spanish that the appendix was extraordinarily long but fine, and that he "poked" around in other areas that looked "strange," but resisted the urge to operate on them.

For the record, I never went back to that doctor and removed the stitches myself. See, I am a brave little girl.

Anyway, I still have a bad case of the cramps, but it's nothing a few hundred Advil can't cure. (That was for my mom. She thinks everyone is addicted to drugs, including vitamins. But seriously, 8-9 Advil do the trick.)

How many Advil do you take?

Prayers optional

If you have to be stuck with a picture for a few days, this one's not bad.
Miss Dub gets very excited when she sees a lawn mower.

I'm going to have a little light surgery for breakfast today.

If I never post again, you can assume it went badly.

If I don't post for a few days, you can assume I'm using it as an excuse to do nothing but lay around the house and bark orders to Mr. Dub.

"Pillow fluffing, STAT!"

"Where is my butter substitute?"

"French braid, please!"

p.s. If you couldn't access my blog recently that's because my domain was suspended as they somehow thought I was writing from Iran - and that's an apparent no-no. I guess there must be a lot of chubby, whiny, blond housewives in Tehran.

My favorite book ... if I liked it

Have you ever read a book that you knew you should adore, but didn't? I had that experience the other day. Everyone and their grandma's cousin's manicurist had been yapping for years about Ian McEwan's Saturday. Genius. Life-changing. Freaktalicious. The back of the book even said things like, "Mr. McEwan is the best writer on the earth. And, no, your favorite author is not even close."

So I picked it up. Within minutes, I understood the hype. The man is a genius. His work is subtle, yet life-changing. His poignant use of the English language was nothing short of freaktalicious. And, yet, I was bored.

The premise is great - the extraordinary events of a somewhat ordinary Saturday. So, like 24, but without Kiefer Sutherland and the overused "government mole" plot. But most of the book is reflections on his family, his past and the beginning of the Iraq war. A post-9/11 commentary, if you will. But I really didn't want to philosophize; I wanted a plot. I loved any chance to read dialog, but it happened so rarely that I found myself skimming pages at a time before dropping back in for a read.

Yet, I know it's a brilliant masterpiece.

Is that weird?

Please enlighten me. Although, I should warn you that I'm apparently too frivolous for enlightenment - so try to spice it up a bit.


p.s. Book recommendations are also a good idea if you're feeling comment shy.

Coupons are for wimps

A lot of you have been emailing me, wondering how my coupon quest is going. Actually, no one has emailed me. What, am I not cool any more? You're all into podcasts, or something?

Anyway, my coupon quest is going great. Like, I totally canceled my Grocery Game membership on Monday. It's not that I wasn't saving money. On one occasion, I went to CVS and got $60 worth of free stuff. Free. Totally free. Most of it feminine hygiene products. And I was generally saving $40-50 on each grocery trip to Jewel-Osco, so that's all good and nice.

But there were hidden costs: my sanity! Clipping coupons and preparing a compatible menu took me a few hours each week. And since our fridge likes to declare its complete emptiness on Monday mornings, it was a few hours each Monday morning. In my pajamas.

Shopping with coupons was no cake walk, either. Actually, a cake walk wouldn't be that easy for me because I don't have much of a sweet tooth. But let's assume that the term is "nacho walk," in which case, shopping with coupons was no nacho walk, either. I was going through a couple suckers to keep Miss Dub entertained and still leaving with a migraine. Also, a cart with a sampling of products and brands I would never buy without coupons. (I almost bought LA Looks hair gel. On the bible.)

So on Monday I told myself, "Forget it. This is not worth the stress. Spending too much might have been bad on your budget, but it was good for your mental health." Also, we don't have a budget, but we are thinking about starting one with your donations from my upcoming podcasts.

I cannot describe the weight I felt lifted off my shoulders. I imagine it's like unto someone who has committed a heinous crime and spent years on the lam before finally confessing. Except they would end up in a small prison cell, whereas I had the freedom to head to my nearest Dominick's and put Miss Dub in one of those cute shopping carts that looks like a car. (FYI, after 10 minutes she announced, "I done driving," which brought down the cuteness factor quite a bit.)

When I got to the checkout, my bill was the same as when I was using coupons. It was a scam! I felt elated! I felt vindicated! I felt - cheated, when I looked in my cart and realized that I had half the amount of groceries I would have had using coupons.

So now I don't know. I think I'm going to try my own coupon strategies at Super Target, where the prices are consistently lower. Or I may just hold out for those donations. By the way, what is a podcast?

Diamond is a girl's best friend

Most of the time I wonder why anyone would want to be my friend, much less read my random blog. But then I do something so blow-your-delicate-mind awesome, that I can't imagine why everyone isn't flocking to be my Be-Fri.

Like when I went and saw Neil Diamond in concert on Saturday night, fulfilling a lifelong dream and most 55-year-old white women's fantasy. (Sorry mom, accidentally your demographic.)

As the concert began, my heart was so full of love for Brother Love himself that I could hardly breathe. He pelted out some great favorites, like "Sweet Caroline," "Forever in Blue Jeans," "I am ... I said," and "Love on the Rocks."

Unfortunately, he played some new material (yawn). And he played so many songs with a strong Southern Baptist flavor that Dave's coworker and I had to agree that he must be a "Jew for Jesus." Also, despite my familiarity with Mr. Diamond's repertoire, I wasn't aware that ALL his songs can be summed up in the following words: "I'm a lonely 67-year-old man who misses New York and craves the attention of drunk women."

And I must admit that the cheese factor was more than I had anticipated and craved. There was a vignette performed for "You don't bring me flowers," which was a bit much even for my campy tastes. And by the third singalong of the last refrain of "Sweet Caroline," I was wishing I had to use the restroom.

But the best part of the whole night was watching a young, black usher watching the whole spectacle with such a puzzled grimace on his face. I'm sure he was wondering why a bunch of old, white women were shaking their things to a bunch of songs he'd never heard. I half felt embarrassed to be part of such a shameless display of cheesiness, and half wanted to indoctrinate him into the Gospel of Neil.

I went up to him afterward and asked him if it was the worst night of his life.

"No," he said, "Those last two songs weren't so bad." (Referring to two songs from his new album that had a strong gospel feel.)

"And that one song is on that Disney show - 'That's so Raven.' That's cool!"

Aw, Neil. You can sway even the toughest critic.

A is for awkward

I wish someone would do a study to determine just what portion of the male mustache-wearing population is pedophiles. Because we have a foreign neighbor who sports a 'stache who has taken a liking to Miss Dub. It's nothing too strange; he comments on how cute she is, and waves "bye-bye." He doesn't seem overtly creepy, but we're not setting an extra plate out our table, ifyaknowwhatimsayin.

He does like to call Miss Dub "baby girl," which is more embarassing (for him) than alarming (for us). So we may have rushed into the house a few times to avoid the 'stacher, as well as the enormous suckers he likes to give Miss Dub. (So far, none have tested positive for razors or Roofies.)

Things got a little weirder the other day, however, when he ran up to apartment and brought back a - wait for it - Hannah Montana doll for Miss Dub. I didn't even know what to say. "Why are you buying gifts for my child?" seemed too cold. And, "My child is more fond of Elmo than wig-wearing tweeners," seemed too rude.

So now we have a really obnoxious Hannah Montana doll lost somewhere in our toy stash. And we have me wondering if I should change the locks or pen a thank-you note:

Dear 'Stacher,

Thanks for buying a doll that's not age-appropriate for my daughter. If you were really creepy, you would probably know to buy something else, so that's a good thing, I guess.

In the future, however, if you wish to make sweet comments and/or distribute gifts, you will have to have to shave your mustache.

Thanks again!
The Dubs

Insurance woes, or why I want to be a man

Have you ever wondered if I am really a man?

I haven't. I mean, I've never been a high-maintenance gal, but I've always been grounded in my femininity. I love salad, for heaven's sake. So it came as some surprise when my insurance began refusing to pay for my obstetrician bills on the grounds that I wasn't a woman.

Yeah, they thought I was a man. Thankfully, one phone call was all it took to persuade them otherwise. (I would have been a little ashamed if they would have insisted on a birth certificate or makeup bag examination. I do have a husky voice, after all.) So the good news is that I can continue to use the lady's room instead of going to the plain ol' bathroom, since men refuse to call it the "gentleman's quarters" ... or maybe just my husband won't.

The bad news is that I am now being charged an extra 400 snaps a month for maternity coverage, which I don't technically need right now, but which I hope to need sometime next year. (Presuming my lady parts get their act together.) I guess they weren't charging me for maternity coverage when they thought I was a dude, assuming it was some sort of clerical error. And, thankfully, they aren't making me pay back payments, but an extra $400 a month isn't cheap - bringing the grand total to $850 a month for me and Miss Dub.

Yeah, my husband's work doesn't provide group insurance for spouses - boo! You can get a pre-tax plan, but it's got all the bells and whistles (aromatherapy, venom-based prescriptions, etc.) so it's much pricier than most independent plans. Too bad, because independent plans won't cover my endocrinology care, which constitutes a large chunk of my medical needs. And I really wonder if a new provider would cover my gyno needs considering my recent experiences.

But let's assume they did - any suggestions on health care providers or plans? I currently use a PPO because I'm really partial to my endo and gyno. (As my friends know, I really wish my gyno was my best friend, but she's just not responding to my personal questions at the end of my medical emails. I guess inviting her to a BBQ might be a conflict of interest?)

Please, hook me up with some affordable insurance. Or get my husband a new job (in San Diego). Or let me know of someone who does cheap gender reassignment surgeries. Because being a man wasn't very fun, but it was economical.

And so it begins ...

Sticky hands + cotton balls = this

When people spoke of the "Terrible Twos," I always thought of it as a phase. Like, a gradual descent into temper tantrumdom, with a gradual ascent into not-as-adorable, but still cute kidhood.

I was wrong.

The "Terrible Twos" came to our house yesterday like a package arriving in the mail. Just when I was feeling Brangelina in my baby-making desires - "But seven just seems too small!" - I was faced with the most evil, the most defiant Miss Dub I'd ever met - and she's not even two until October.

It began with a battle over wearing a diaper. Not knowing I was about to sink into the depths of motherhood, I took this to be a sign that potty training had arrived. (Not the best timing since I'm leaving for two weeks on Friday. Oops, didn't I tell you already?) I said, "Well, if you don't want to wear a diaper, you can sit on the potty and ..." (I'll spare those without children the cutesy phrases I use to refer to our excrement.)

That was when I got a diaper throw in my face, while Miss Dub shouted, "No potty! No diaper! Naaaaked!"

I'll spare you the nitty-gritty on the rest of the day, but there was a two-hour battle over wearing shorts, a battle over coming inside, a battle over taking a nap, a battle over leaving Target without purchasing a very large doll house, which she physically removed from the shelf herself.

And then, just when I thought she was ready to rest from her loud labors, she preceded to screech when I put her to bed. I did the typical mom debate - Is she hurt/sad/soiled v. Will she become spoiled/dependent/needy? - ultimately siding with my eardrums and the very real possibility that someone would call CPS on me. THREE times I tried to get her back into bed with various bribery techniques, including stuffed animals, books and "candy milk" - vanilla soy milk - all to no avail.

At 10 p.m., she finally fell asleep on Mr. Dub's lap while watching "The Office."

So now I'm thinking five kids might be just right.

What about you?

Miss Dub chronicles

Yes, I let her out in public in her pajamas.

I fear that my portrayal of Miss Dub has led some of you to believe she is a genius. And while she probably will graduate from high school at 10, she's also a typical toddler. Also, even though she talks like a teenager, only a few people can understand what she is saying. I happen to be one of those people.

So without further adieu, I'll share a few things Miss Dub has been doing and saying as of late:

1) The other day I was getting ready and trying to ignore my puffy midsection. Just then, Miss Dub shouted to me, "Mommy's skirt is pretty." This not only made me feel good, but gave me an incredible urge to eat her, which you will be glad to know I resisted. Then she added, "Mommy, you're pretty!" So I ate her.

2) Every time we drive in the car, she shouts out the windows, "Piiiiink! Piiiiink! Piiiiink house!" After some investigation, I discovered that she is on a quest to find and purchase a pink house. If anyone finds one, please let me know it's geographical coordinates so we can drive by and promptly never return. Maybe then she'll stop screaming while I drive.

3) When we were in Nauvoo, she wanted to get on stage before a musical performance. I indulged her since only the brass band was playing. Immediately, she began to shake her thing for the crowd, which they loved. Just then, the band stopped playing and the audience clapped. Miss Dub thought they were clapping for her. Confused when they stopped, she raised her hands and clapped again. The whole audience began clapping with her. She stopped, they stopped. And so on it went for a few minutes. She was beaming the whole time. When I finally got her down, she kept saying, "I want to go on stage." And when she awoke the next morning, the first thing she said to me was, "Clapping with me!" Looks like I'm going to be a show mom. Now, I just need to take a class on how to pressure my child and/or steal her earnings.

4) Miss Dub's favorite joke is to call grapes, apples. In fact, she doesn't even have to be eating grapes to crack herself up. She'll just look at me and say, "Aaaapples!" And I have to say, "No, grapes!" And then she laughs for 30 minutes, which is nice because it's hard to get anything done with a toddler around.

5) We recently purchased Juno. In one scene, Juno's friends suggests she might be pregnant with a "food baby." I guess Mr. Dub and I have been quoting that on occasion because Miss Dub recently turned to me and proclaimed, "Food baby!" I had to explain to her what that meant, at which point she motioned to my stomach. And no, she didn't say I was pretty this time.



p.s. Happy Birthday to me mumsie! She's an amazing lady and a great rhymer.

How I survived my first heart attack

The Lord works in mysterious ways ... sometimes through hypochondria.

Last night, Mr. Dub had a friend over for one last hangout - he's moving, not dying - and they decided to watch "Live Free or Die Hard." I say "they" because I generally don't like to watch movies with action sequences that last more than 30 seconds at a time and/or involve planes, tunnels or abandoned warehouses. (Check, check and check.) But I decided to watch it, and even though some of the scenes gave me an ulcer, it was pretty enjoyable. (I should note that my love for fictional terrorism outweighs my aversion to intense action.)

When the movie was over, I felt a sharp, shooting pain in my chest. This is not abnormal. I don't think it's my heart, but my proclivity to sit in uncomfortable, compact positions while watching TV. Then, the pain was followed by tingling in my left arm. I let this go for a minute, but it continued to persist. I jokingly asked them about the signs of a heart attack. Then, Mr. Dub's friend left, and I didn't have to pretend to joke because Mr. Dub knows how paranoid I can be. We researched it a bit on line and found out that "numbness in the left arm" is actually not as common of a symptom as you think. Sorry to shake up your world, but do be alert for pain in your jaw.

Wow, this is getting long. Short story not as short as it could be, I decided it would be best to call a doctor. She was basically asleep and said something like, "Who knows?" so I decided to it was OK to go to bed. Still, I wanted to be prepared and keep my phone by my bed just in case. Unfortunately, I realized my phone was still in our swimming bag, which was in Miss Dub's room.

I tiptoed into her room and was hit by a smell wave. Clearly, someone had soiled her diaper, and it wasn't me this time. While I got out my phone, I debated whether or not to wake her. Just then, she woke up. I asked her if she wanted me to change her and she said yes. Then she said, "Mommy, I'm scared." I held her for a bit, and put her back in her crib.

This morning, I asked her if she remembered me coming in. After some prying and translation, I found out she had a bad dream about drowning and that she had been praying for me to come in her room. And I did ... because I was possibly having a heart attack.

So there you have it. Next time you have numbness in your left arm - and I admittedly still do - you should first check on your child, then turn off the intense action film you are watching and, finally, go straight to bed.

I'm my own grandpa!

After nearly three years in Illinois, we decided to get serious about our citizenship and heritage and trekked down to Nauvoo this weekend. For those of you who aren't LDS/Mormon/consumers of Jell-O hybrids, Nauvoo is a place where early Mormons settled before persecution drove them West.

I have to say, I don't blame them. And by them, I mean both the persecutors and the pioneers. I mean, there's nothing going on in Nauvoo - one would get bored and prone to mischief. Sure, it's a beautiful place by a scenic river, but there are literally only seven eating establishments in the whole town and most of them close at 5 p.m. We actually paid $14 for a buffet that featured fake crab meat marinating in butter alongside reconstituted mashed potatoes. Mr. Dub loved the kitsch of the whole experience, while I just kept wondering why no one had opened a really good Mexican restaurant. And then I remembered they would have to live there ... in the winter.

The historical sites were pretty cool, although I got a bit weary of tour guides. Also, the Nauvoo Temple is so beautiful inside and out. I always thought it was a little trite for people to love one temple ("San Diego is the bomb!") and detest another ("Ew! Provo!"), but I now have a strange affinity for the rebuilt Nauvoo temple. It's decorated in chartreuse and buttercream tones, which is just lovely. Lovely, I tell you! Plus, my dad was in the hospital again while we were there so I especially enjoyed the unique spiritual peace you feel inside the temple. (Go here if you're still confused. Or here.)

Some thought we were crazy to head towards the Mississippi while everyone else was evacuating from there, but Nauvoo is set at a higher elevation so the super swollen river didn't quite make it to the town. Besides, the river knew it would get bored after 8 p.m. so it stuck to the Iowa side. (You know how crazy those cornfields can get!)

Anyway, I am glad we made the trip, mostly so I don't feel like an idiot when everyone asks us if we've been yet. Then again, I didn't go to the Grand Canyon until I was 14, and I lived in Arizona most of my life. (Little known fact: I was born in Washington D.C.)

Oh, but if you are now hankering to visit Nauvoo, I should warn you. The musical performances are big on overacting and references to inbreeding. In fact, when we first pulled up, I saw "I'm my own grandpa" scribbled into the dust on the back of a van. I thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever read, mostly because it sounded like immature gibberish, but when we attended a musical performance later that night, there was a song by that same name. I won't go into details, but it gave me a decidedly creepy feeling inside.

But did I mention the temple is lovely?


* Kristen is the random winner of an Eliza subscription. Email me!

C is for Compassion ... and Clavicle

Miss Dub has been naturally blessed with a strong sense of compassion. Not only does she voluntarily offer hugs and kisses to me, but she offers them to others, including strangers and television characters. (She also tickles the TV.)

Yesterday, I overheard this conversation between the little Miss and her toys while taking a bath:

Miss Dub: Ready? Go!

Pig: I winning.

Sheep: No winning.

Miss Dub: Good job, pig! Fast!

Sheep: (pretend crying)

Miss Dub: Good job, sheep!

Sheep: (sad voice) No winning.

Miss Dub: You winning. You trying.

Miss Dub: (kisses sheep) Ready? Go again!

The weatherman who cried wolf

We slept with flash lights by our beds last night. For the umpteenth time in a few weeks, there was a tornado warning for our area.

In our nearly 3 years in Illinois, we've yet to be hit by a tornado. (Wood? Wood? Where are you?) I don't know if it's because we live in a suburban area, sheer luck, or we just smell bad, but all these false alarms are creating a false sense of security.

Last night, as the Weather Channel beeped out hideous warnings and promises - "A dangerous storm with damaging winds will reach you in 10 minutes! Seek shelter! Put on some deodorant!" - Mr. Dub got out the flashlights and emergency backpacks, while I typed some emails.

Maybe I'm just mad. Coming from Arizona, where our big natural worry is drought, it's hard to live in a place where deadly tornadoes are commonplace. And now, apparently, we also have earthquakes to worry about. So I'm sorta ticked, and I think the tornadoes know it.

Anyhow, there was no tornado. There were no damaging winds. There was no soft-ball sized hail. There was an intense downpour ... and a lingering distrust in meteorology.

Do you trust your weatherman?

My little drummer girl

Miss Dub already likes to dress herself. And if you think fashion sense is genetic, it's not. It's an acquired skill, and I can only hope that these early, awkward acquisitions lead to future outfits with coordinating colors. (Or at least thoughtfully mismatched ones as is über-hip these days.)

It takes some serious self control to let my child out of the house wearing pink cowboy boots and red shorts. I try not to be embarrassed or make explanatory comments to strangers - after all, isn't fashion about discovering yourself? - but it's hard not to when she looks like I just found her on the doorstep ... of Weird Al's house.

So much of parenting is trying not to control your children - forcing them to do or behave the way you would. Like, I'm obsessed with simple, modern children's products. I daydream of toy boxes full of wooden blocks and kid gear void of plastic, bright colors, characters or noises. So far, I'm failing, mostly thanks to grandparents who are happy to give Miss Dub the brightest and loudest toys they can find.

And you know what? She loves them. She likes her big turtle-shaped toy-holder in the bathtub, even though I lay awake at night thinking of ways I could make a simple beige pouch to replace it. She likes her Winnie Pooh plastic car, complete with obnoxious songs. (And, let's be honest, Pooh is one creepy bear.)

I need to make peace with it. I need to realize that she's not going to like the same things and styles as me for the rest of her life. I marched to the beat of my drum, so why should I try to keep control of her drumsticks?

But I seriously draw the line at light-up character shoes ... but ask me again in a few years when she's throwing a fit in the middle of Target.

Let's be losers!

Looking better last year ... sigh.

I have a secret: I'm chunky. Not full-blow fat again but definitely soft. Actually, the world would probably consider me a buffet-lover with the girth I've got going, but by suburban mom standards - in a Midwestern suburb, I should clarify - I'm just average. Yes, the 15+ pounds I put on in my half-term pregnancy are still here four months later. I could blame the fact that I didn't have breastfeeding to help me shed those stubborn pounds, or I could contribute my apathy to physical and mental issues caused by such a traumatic experience, but the real culprit is the snack aisle. I mean, with so many choices out there - sweet or salty? - how is anyone expected to control their calories? And let me tell you, I can eat. I've even contemplated competition eating, but those skinny Asians can pound some red hots.

The worst part is that I joined a weight loss competition 10 weeks ago, named after The Biggest Loser. Here's another secret: I've never seen the show in its entirety. But I get the concept - go to adult fat camp, cry a lot and lose your man-boobs. Thankfully, there's a lot less crying in this competition, as well as angry personal trainers. But after 10 weeks, I'd only lost and gained the same few pounds.

So the competition is starting up again on Monday. Despite my embarrassment, I decided to give it another shot. After seeing the "after" photos of the top winners - er, losers - I realized that I had just wasted four months of my life. Rather than feeling confident in a swimsuit this summer, I'll be searching for a cover-up. So why wait another four months - especially since I hope to give baby-making another try later this year?

But I decided to invite you all to join, since I know it's a great motivator to pass by the dessert plate at BBQs this summer. If you're already skinny, you can leave now. People hate you.

Here's how it works: You pay $100 to participate. Every week, you send in your weight to the administrator, who is also a participant. To keep things honest, you must send in a personal photo of yourself and an image of the scale at the beginning and end of the competition. A weekly spreadsheet is sent out with info on each contestant, and emails are exchanged sharing tips and some ribbing. All weight loss plans are OK, but no fasts, cleanses, pills or supplements are allowed. There are a few raffles during the competition, but most of the money goes to the winners. Last time, the winner took homes $1,100, second place got $660 and third place got $440. (Winners are based on percentage of weight loss, not total weight loss, so there is not a real advantage to being heavier.)

Last time, there was a wide group of women, mostly from Arizona, who participated. Most had a significant amount of weight to lose, so if you only need to lose a few pounds, this competition might not be for you. You can go join the skinny girls now, but you make us less insecure than they do if that makes you feel better.

Anywho, if you are interested, email me at missusdubATgmailDOTcom. You need to be ready to go on Monday morning, but it's OK if you can't get the money for a week or so. And I should mention that I'm planning on winning, but you're welcome to come in second.

Now, where's my danish?

Planes, trains, trolleys and Legos

Having Mrs. Jay here with us was ... well, not "awesome" because that word is a bit 90s, and not "cool" because it was cooler than cool, and not fabulous because only one woman can use that word legitimately without sounding like a drag queen. And dope, fresh, wicked, sick and tight are all a little juvenile. But whatever word means "like, the best time ever" should go here.

Wednesday we just chilled with a little deep dish and watched Nacho Libre - the first of three viewings, I might add. Thursday we went to a local farm that had potential, but fell so far short that I found myself mocking it, until I realized that it's run by developmentally disabled young people, at which point I felt terrible. But then I realized that someone who is not developmentally disabled probably runs the farm so there was no excuse for the dilapidated buildings and lackluster attractions. (Not to mention a train ride that features a turn through a barn filled with cleaning supplies and a half-painted mural.) So then I resumed my mocking. I feel good about it.

On Friday, despite a tornado warning and threat of hail, we took the kids downtown on the train. It was a roundabout excursion because we weren't really clear on our objectives, but once the rain stopped, and we figured out the free trolley system, we had an awesome - and you know how I feel about that word - time at the children's museum. I even purchased a membership there because isn't it only fair that Miss Dub get something with our stimulus payment? The only down point of the day came when a homeless woman cast a spell on Miss Dub. I can't be sure of the exact nature of the spell, but I hope it's something like, "Compelled to do homework on time" or "Cowlick-free hair." Still, it was weird to have a woman staring down my child in an eerie made-for-television way. But what's a downtown experience without a little voodoo?

Then on Saturday morning, the whole clan packed up and left for Mr. Jay's parents' house in a town that is - seriously - called Kankakee. And Miss Dub immediately burst into sobs and shouted, "My friends, my friends!" I didn't even know she knew that word, but I'm sure glad we've got some. We had a great time seeing the local sights with them, although I'm pretty sure if you asked the Jay boys what their favorite part of the trip was, they would say it was going to the Lego store at our mall. Hey, who doesn't love interlocking plastic?